Articles

by Gail Dottin   I only wanted one present from her for my birthday that year: teach me how to make them.  *** My parents coordinating picnic caravans with my fertile family and troops of replicating cousins, at least three weekends of each summer month. Club El Pacifico, the alumni association of Dad’s high school …

by Gail Dottin   2 lbs salted dried codfish (You can also use the pollock wanna-be-codfish which is cheaper) 6 eggs beaten  3 chopped scallions  1 small/med onion diced  1/2 cup o’ flour 1 tsp o’ baking powder 1 tsp o’ pepper sauce to taste 1/2 cup o’ veg/canola oil  * For the dried cod and pepper sauce, check …

I was told I was born at sunset, half-past the infusion hours of memory into turmeric. I was told I was born blue on the lips, my mother’s milk was nowhere to be found. No trace of white lights or rivers, no names to call to when time arrests flesh. No equal, no passport, no pebble, fish or guide.

When a pressure cooker whistles, it is urgent. Like an orgasm. I’m ready! Now! Shut me off before I overcook! It also thinks it can sing.

From March to June, I had erected in our dining room a remote learning station, helping three kids—a teenager and two preteens—figure out how to follow instructions, upload completed assignments on Google Classroom, and attend Zoom sessions. I too was teaching three courses online. It was a chaos that I managed, confident—as so many of us were—that it would soon be over.

by Kay Ulanday Barrett   Hello, I’m feeling hopeless. I can’t write poems. Instead, I’m trying to cook food that feels safe and reminds me of home. I’m Filipinx and my lola/grandma used to make charred eggplant omelets! Almost every weekend morning before Saturday cartoons as I was still in my baggy pajamas, my lola …

I can see the first iterations of the nameless chicken-breast-and-spinach dish being assembled in the attic kitchen of my grad school apartment, with its slightly sloping floors, its odd, leftover-wood cabinets (and countertops) thickly varnished so they shone.

I’ve been writing since I was a kid, and it was largely a way for me to make sense of the world and process emotions. I went from writing poetry to autobiographical poetic prose to short stories. Most of the writing stayed with me and I shared a few pieces publicly.

I’ve been writing since childhood, although its in my adult life that I became more aware of the craft. A repetitive trope in my work is the journey of coming of age, or rites of passage.

I grew up with a full stomach, grew up with access to books, and grew up with parents that encouraged a life in the arts. These privileges, especially the last one, are not often granted to people of color. So I was grateful to have parents that passed down the rationale that since slaves could be killed for being literate, the written word must hold value, there must be great wealth with every turn of a page.